Complete Transparency, A Journal

YOU'VE BEEN WARNED this post contains cussing and general grumpiness in an effort to be completely transparent about my writing experiment for the day. Also, I'm naked for part of it, so read at your own risk.

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My day started with sleepy, awkward sex and moved into procrastination. Lying in bed, taking pictures of my wife with my iPod. Then just dreading going out for the day.

I fear failure like a poodle fears thunder. I compensate by dressing fancy and dragging my feet. I spend 30 minutes browsing pretentious art online. I'm fat in the mirror, a bag of water lopsided and covered in hair.

I had promised my 30+ twitter followers and all 89 of my Facebook friends that I would spend at least 8 hours writing today. A kind of self-experimentation of how things might go if I were to make writing a full-time job.

How many hours do professional novelists actually spend typing away at a story?

I have no idea. I head over to the Chef and order an Irish coffee. (Whiskey and Baileys). The sounds are a mixture of pleasant conversation and clinking silverware. Journaling counts as writing, right?

My omelet is amazing. Everybody is happy here. Food makes people happy.

I'm going to have to walk to the Library, because I'm not sure how much booze is in this coffee.

My wife told me ten pages would be success. I very much doubt she would be impressed by this stream of consciousness crap.

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I hop in my sad-faced Miata and drive to the library. I shouldn’t, but I do. And what’s more is I don’t wear a seat belt. It’s very warm here, but I can’t tell if that’s the atmosphere or the whiskey talking. I sweat profusely when I drink.

I’m not welcome at the library anyway, I owe them too much money for borrowing books like they should be; taking them  home, forgetting you have them, and only taking them back when the person who loaned them asks very nicely. Then rifling all your books until you find it (them) and hastily dropping them off without making eye contact. A year or two later.

I think a nice change of pace, or a change in scenery can shake loose some mental cob-webs and reunite you with artistic creativity. Plus, I'm hoping that by simply spending time in a place like this, I can absorb some of the past genius from long-dead authors by osmosis.

I guess we'll see how it goes...

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Now at bluestem. More coffee. Not feeling particularly inspired or motivated. Whoever decided that hazelnut and coffee should be a thing deserves 40 virgins of the gender of their choice.  Have written some. About five pages. 23 if I make the font really huge. I like what I've written, but I feel like I've spent too long with a habit of only writing when the planets along just so, that now it feels impossible to just sit down and make good art.

So while not a complete failure, definitely a learning experience. I think I should have done some research about the writing habits of full-time novelists to find out when, how, where, and for how long they spend writing. I suspect this was never meant to be a 9-5 thing. Maybe I'll have more luck late tonight... But I sincerely doubt it.

Creativity is a demanding bitch, and if you don't service her on a regular basis, she doesn't do your bidding when you want her to.

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